Sunday, September 29, 2013

As s.z. spends her days performing good works for the bi- and quadrupedal unfortunates in her community, I figured this would be an appropriate place for an update on Riley's condition. First of all, a huge thank you to everyone who's donated to what I like to think of as CrapperCare; your generosity not only allowed us to appease the slavering maw that is our internet provider, but to take Riley to the vet yesterday morning.The preliminary diagnosis is likely thyroid trouble, potential liver disease. They did some initial tests, and we should hear something by Monday (including whether more tests or needed). I was worried about the stress of the trip (she never leaves the apartment, which speaking purely from a square footage perspective, isn't exactly Xanadu -- the stately home of Charles Foster Kane or the roller disco rink, either one is huge by comparison -- and she's never been comfortable in the car), but she handled the whole thing with aplomb, including the heart stopping moment when a huge, overly friendly dog stuck his face up against her cage (she's never seen one before -- at least, not since she was a kitten living on the street). Even in moments of acute anxiety, Riley adheres to the motto, "Never Let 'Em See You Sweat, Because You're a Cat And Don't Actually Have Sweat Glands, So That Would Be Weird, Although Nothing Like That 132-lb Scrotum."We're going to keep the Beg-A-Thon going for a few more days, since the estimate for additional tests (if necessary) and treatment are slightly beyond what we have on hand, so if you were planning to kick in a few bucks but didn't want to look like a Johnny-Come-Lately, have no fear, Operators are still standing by.Now, on to this week's Slab O' Swank, originally published on October 11, 2005.

One Wish

Yes, welcome to the new reality series "One Wish," which is a lot like "Three Wishes," except that it isn't heartwarming, it doesn't feature Amy Grant, and instead of picking the three most deserving people in some podunk town and making their wishes come true, we choose somebody who's obviously going to hell, and focus on one of his comments to give him something that he doesn't actually care that much about.

Our first contestant is Brad, a bright, young college student whose hobbies include blogging, mockery, and Marie Jon' baiting. Now, here's his wish:

I really wish Pastor Swank wrote more about his family- it's always ten times more interesting than the Gurdons or Lileks. I mean, you've got demon infestation, you've got gang wars, you've got God striking grandmothers with strokes... it's a virtual cornucopia-o-wackiness every day at the Swank household.

Brad, while we can't make Pastor Swank write more about his family, we can point out some of the stories he's already shared. Will that be good enough for you, you Gnat-hating bastard?

In any case, let's let listen as the Pastor commiserates with Jeb Bush about his criminal offspring, and tells the Dominionists at the Chalcedon Foundation about his own wayward, adopted, multi-racial son (whose name is Jay, BTW).

I am a dad. My adopted multi-racial son came into our loving family at 2 l/2 months. In his mid-teens, he let loose with the underground culture of drugs and violence.

That led to 5 years in federal prison.

[...]

How many days did I go about my ministerial obligations with a numb head?

Brad, the pastor asked you a question! (Here's a hint: if Y = all the days that Swank went about his ministerial obligations, then X has to be equal to or lesser than Y).

But on to the conclusion of the story:

What a dark day it was for my wife and me to sit in court while our son — tall, handsome, talented — stood there in his orange outfit and ankles in shackles, being sentenced — rightfully so — to a prison house?

And then to read about it in the two city newspapers? Hard stuff.

Unfortunately, upon his release, he went back to the underground. That's the magnet that "is out there." I have concluded that for now he has traded in his caring family for the mayhem culture.

Brad, here's another math question for you: how many mayhem cultures can you get in trade for one caring Swank family?

I understand that my son was to be sentenced after being apprehended for breaking his parole. But no detail has come through yet.

I am not all that anxious to grub about for the specifics. My nerves have been through enough hell pockets on this score. I will await the picture to come in more clearly in time.In the meantime, my heart goes out to Jeb and all the others who try to sleep at night but have a hard time of because one of the "little ones" grown taller has been put away.

What a heart-rending story: a Christian father who did everything he could for his son (but who can't be blamed if his offspring went astray, because the kid wasn't his own blood, and was multi-racial, which inclined him towards a life of crime). And yet the father stuck by the kid (when it didn't bother his hell-pocketed nerves) even after adoptee rightfully went to prison. In fact, the Swank story is much more dramatic than the one about Jeb Bush and his druggie daughter (or any Bush family member and any of the other law-breaking members of the clan).

However, this isn't the only version Swank's story of his ungrateful adopted son. For instance, in I Believe in Miracles: The Suitcase, we learn that the kid was only bi-racial.

Interestingly enough, in a July 2005 column, the adopted son is black, and therefore evidence that the Pastor "has no bias" when he claims that it's time for "the moral blacks to back a moral US President George W. Bush." And in an August 2005 piece, Swank cites an adopted black son who is now in his mid-20's as proof that some of his best friends are black, and so we should listen to him when he says that, "A black cannot be a Bible-carrying, Sunday school attending, worshiping Christian and at the same time undercut the Oval Office that stands for what that black says he believes on the Lord’s Day."

While all this doesn't clarify the racial heritage of this child who was unfortunate enough to be adopted by the Pastor, it does help to explain why the kid would want to rebel against his adoptive father and all he stood for.

But in any case, let's examine the part of the Suitcase Miracle story which tells how Pastor Swank learned of his son's affiliation with the Maine faction of the Crips, and how the Pastor fought against this menace to his home:

I first came to know that he belonged to The Crips when I noted burn marks on his bedroom door frame. He took matches, lighted them, and then burnt gang symbols into the woodwork.

I was not at all pleased, naturally. Yet it was not only the damage to the woodwork but the fact that he had joined up with a killing gang that prodded me to wonder what my life had been yanked into.

But the damage to the woodwork was the main concern. (And If you're like me, you probably don't feel that the kid's bona fides as a gangbanger have been proven by his door frame etchings).

But on to the way this Godly parent fought back:

One day when he walked through the family room door with a young low-life from the city, I heard them whispering in his bedroom. That room was way down the hall. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. He always whispered. That made me very angry. I did not like this stranger living in my house.

So I sat in the rocker in the living room. I read aloud the entire Book of Revelation — from first to last. I read it aloud. I read it so loud that it embarrassed the two of them at the end of the hall. But it was my house and I could read the Bible at a high pitch if I wanted to. I could even read it for two hours straight if I wanted to. So that day I wanted to. And I did.

And yet, strangely enough, that didn't make the kid see the error of his ways -- and you'd think that his kind of thing would make him see that religion is a lot more fun than hanging out with kids his own age.

So, where does the Miracle of the Suitcase come in?

Well, I knew that I was not ready to die at his hands. His head, after all, was nuts. His soul was blackened by the devil. He was out of control with drugs and mayhem, alliances with criminals in the city, hooked on violent videos and movies, and liaisons at one house or another night after night in his runaways.I was not going to walk into his crazed path if he decided to snuff out my life. So I packed a suitcase. It was there just in case. I put only the basics in it. If I ever had to flee in a second’s notice, I could grab it. I hid it so that it would be near the escape.

I then planned the route to get to the bus station. And after that, I had several choices, none of which was convenient. But at least it would keep me alive. I had to stay alive. This adolescent who had lost it was not going to do me in. If his mother would stand in his bloody way, that was her choice. But my choice was to stay alive.

So, Swank has an adolescent son who uses drugs, whispers with his friends, and uses matches to make marks (which the Pastor can't interpret, but knows that they are proof of his son's gang involvement) on the door frame, watches violent videos, and has a soul which has been blackened by Satan. And this boy may kill his father. But the Pastor has a righteous plan to deal with all of this: he will skip town if things actually get dangerous, leaving his wife to be murdered by this bad seed.

See, those are the kind of family values that the Bush administration is all about.

Suffice it to say that through many more dark chapters than there is space here to relate, he turned 18. "This is the happiest birthday of my life," I told him. I knew that henceforth he would talk to the cops straight on. I no longer had to be his legal intermediary.

Yes, the day when one can wash one's hand of one's disappointing offspring IS the happiest day of one's life.

Then it was that he committed the crime that sentenced him to years in several federal prisons — Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan. I wrote him a letter every day. I visited him several times a year — though hundreds of miles separated us.

When he went to prison, I then lifted my suitcase and unpacked it. I thanked God that I never had to use it. To me, that was a miracle.

Yes, the miracle is that the kid got sent to prison before he could murder his Dad. What a touching and inspiring story!

But wait, there's more to the tale! It seems that the kid was innocent of the crime which sent him to federal prison (which makes his Dad's rejoicing about the kid's incarceration, and the claim that the punishment was "rightful," seem kind of odd).

From another Chalcedon Foundation column, we learn that as of Dec, 2002, Pastor Swank was claiming the following:

He was being sentenced for a crime he did not commit. He would end up in a federal prison for several years. Two other youths framed him, naming him in order to let a third youth go free.

But the Pastor stuck by him, visiting him often and writing him daily letters, and the story had a happy ending after all.

Our prayers were eventually rewarded by Jay, in prison, giving his life to Jesus. That, of course, made all the sorrowing worth it.

I hate to interject some skepticism into such a faith-promoting story of a wayward (but innocent) son who finds Jesus in prison, but as we learned from the first Chalcedon column (dated Oct. 2002), after Jay was released, he broke parole,"went back to the underground," and was facing re-arrest. So, maybe the sorrowing wasn't worth it after all.

A 1999 column ("A Father's Love") which the Pastor wrote for the 7th Day Adventist magazine also claims that Jay was incarcerated "for a crime he did not commit," and also concludes with an inspiring message about how being behind bars taught the young man to appreciate his family, and learn to love God with all his heart. It's a lot better story than the February 2005 " I Believe in Miracles (4)" column about Jay, which indicates that Jay was a horrible son, but includes no mention of him being a gangbanger -- nor of doing any decorating with matches.

I never dreamt that life could be so bleak. Hardly a day went by that Jay did not plunge us into confusion and pain. He would knock holes in walls, throw furniture across the room, and bash in a door, scowl and curse.

While the scowling is incriminating, without the match marks and the Pastor's fear for his life, this Miracle story is just not as compelling as the Miracle of the Suitcase. But it does include a passage where the Pastor blames Jay's imprisonment on his own sin(which, once again, seems odd, since we have it on good authority that the kid is innocent), and it gives us a coda to the whole Jay saga:

“Your sin put you in jail,” I wrote him. “The devil paid you with his salary check of death.”

Jay served his time, married, and now has a daughter and son.

So, I guess that whole parole violation thing worked itself out -- and we see that the Pastor was smart not to put his mind through hell pockets worrying about it.

But after reading all about Jay, I still have some questions: such as, does Jay really exist, or did Pastor Swank just make him up, like many of the events and stories in Meghan Gurdon's columns?

I was dazed, walked out of the office to the next counseling room where Sue sat. "Sue, I’ve just been fired. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything wrong except say that I could not be party to what was going on. I felt Jack mistreated Sarah. He should not have said the things to her that he said. She’s an addict in recovery. She’s under enough stress as it is."

This is the man who in 1991 was told by another pastor that I had said concerning the superintendent, "We’ve got to get rid of him." I had never said that. That was a lie manufactured by another minister. But the superintendent believed the lie, never finding out the truth by asking me about that statement. From the lie-moment onward, the superintendent sought how to get rid of me.

[...]

That city pastor told them they would have to pay $400 rental. He then told me I had to support him in that figure. ... That man never let me forget the fact that I would not bow down to his dictate. When he came into the superintendency, he followed through with my ousting.

Or is it because of demons?

The demons crawled our church walls. Then I knew what the missionaries were talking about. They said they were attacked by devils on the mission field. Sometimes it was a witchdoctor. Other times it was the invisible spirits. But devils they were. And those agents were after blood.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

RILEY: Taking me to the vet...Ha! Think you can just show up with a pet taxi and I'll climb meekly inside? Trying pulling up in a pet limo, then maybe I'll--

RILEY: What was that?!

RILEY: You heard it too, didn't you? That was no human sound (as repulsive as those usually are)...This was a bone-chilling, muted roar, like the moist, rattling exhalation of something...not of this world. Some...Lovecraftian horror that logic tells us cannot exist, and yet which has always existed. A malign force beyond nature, older than time and space, the very sight of which can drive men mad!

RILEY: Whatever it is...It must be destroyed.

RILEY: One of you guys take care of that, will you? I gotta go to the vet...

MOONDOGGIE: ZZZZ-z-z-z-huh? I had a dream that I was being destroyed...in my Maidenform Bra...

Friday, September 27, 2013

Jeannie DeAngelis, who was last seen investigating and/or starting rumors that Michelle Obama owns underwear, has discovered/made-up an even bigger scoop this time. It seems that while every evangelical Christian in America was staring at the door, waiting for the return of Jesus, revenant Moses came in through the bathroom window!

Rafael Edward "Ted" Cruz, junior senator from Texas, embodied a powerful role with deep resonance in his marathon fight on the Senate floor against Obamacare.

Given that the fight was fixed, with a predetermined outcome, I'm guessing the role played by Rafael Edward "Ted" Cruz was professional wrestler. "Ted" is a terrible wrestler name, though, so I went through the WWE (and regional affiliates) rosters and found some names that might be more suitable:

Damien Demento (even if you're a decent wrestler, there's going to come a point in the match when the spectators start to wonder when you're going to stop bashing people over the head with folding chairs and leaping off the turnbuckle, and finally get around to playing "Fish Heads" or "Bounce Your Boobies").Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake (despite his adroit moves and crowd-pleasing pecs, he never showed the same raw charisma in the ring as Floyd "The Barber" Lawson).Dolph Ziggler (While I wouldn't go see him wrestle, I would pay scalper's prices to see a naked sword fight between Dolph Ziggler and Dirk Diggler.Mantaur (terrible wrestler, but a half-decent Syfy movie).Shark Boy (okay wrestler, terrible Syfy movie).Scotty 2 Hotty (I'm actually reserving this one for myself, so BACK OFF, "Ted.")

Hm. None of these actually seem like much of an improvement, since Ted isn't really the shirtless, rough and tumble type, but more of an effete, elite, Lord Fauntleroy sort, so I move that henceforth, "Ted" be known as "Filibuster Brown."

He has rightly said of the battle America is currently involved in with Barack Obama and his ghoulish army of liberal Democrats: "This is life and death." And well it is!

I tried to do my patriotic duty and join the Ghoulish Army (after seeing a poster that said, "Uncle Samhain Wants You"), but I was declared 4-F, due to excessive alliteration. Still, I really think Filibuster Brown is onto something with this notion of turning meaningless political stunts into matters of life and death, and suggest we erect a geodesic cage over the well of the Senate and rechristen it "Thunderdome."

Although many remain clueless, the truth is that the dire Obamacare situation is of biblical proportions.

Seems like everything's of biblical proportions with these people nowadays. Or else it's Nazis. Or worse, Nazis of biblical proportions.

Whether Americans realize it or not, if Obamacare is not stopped, the nation will embark on a 40-year slog through a healthcare wilderness that will result in very few of us, if any, making it out alive.

Because it's like Thunderdome! Two men enter, one man leaves. It's basically a death panel, but instead of sitting through a dull hearing in a room with harsh fluorescent lighting and linoleum tiles the color of speckled brown eggs, you're forced to fight a weight lifter and a dwarf to the death. At least, as soon as they call your number.

That's why Ted Cruz (R-TX) has become a political Moses for many.

The "many" being those people who are looking for a leader to follow around the desert for 40 years. But this Moses is even better than the original, because Ted knows a shortcut that'll shave almost half an hour off the trip.

Cruz's small circle of allies

Because even in the Senate, there's a finite number of assholes.

includes Senators Rand Paul (R-KY), Marco Rubio (R-FL), Mike Lee (R-UT), and Jim Inhofe (R-OK), all of whom can be likened to antiquity's Joshua, Aaron, and Hur, the men who supported Moses during the battle against the Amalekites.

Rand Paul, for instance, can be compared to Hur, who disapproved of God giving manna to the Israelites, because socialism.

Cruz choosing to defy Barack Obama and stand toe-to-toe with Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid is reminiscent of what happened in Scripture at Rephidim when the Israelites responded to an Amalekite attack. It was there that Moses instructed Joshua to "Choose some of our men and go out to fight the Amalekites. Tomorrow I will stand on top of the hill with the staff of God in my hands."

Yes, nothing braver than pre-emptively invading another country, then sending someone else to go fight the war you just started while you watch it from your skybox.

Like a modern-day Moses, Ted Cruz has taken to the Senate floor to stand firm against a ferocious enemy called ObamaCare.

Which, brave and fierce a battle as that might be, it's going to make for some particularly crappy devotional art. For example, here's the picture Jeannie inserted, midway through the post, to illustrate her "Ted is Moses" thesis:

But here's the picture that ran at the beginning of her column:

In Scripture, when Moses grew weary and lowered his arms, the tide turned in favor of the Amalekites. The Bible says that Aaron and Hur provided a stone for their leader to sit on and the men held up Moses' hands, "one on one side, one on the other -- so that his hands remained steady till sunset." Regrettably, Senator Ted Cruz did not have the luxury of sitting; he stood for 21 hours straight, but he did have a team to hold up his arms, so to speak.

It didn't have any effect on the outcome of his Peanut Filibuster Parfait, he just wanted the world to see that he felt confident, dry and secure.

In an effort to prevail over the army of ObamaCare advocates, along the way Senators Paul, Lee, Rubio, and Inhofe were joined by David Vitter (R-LA), Jeff Sessions (R-AL), and Pat Roberts (R- KS), who, like modern day Moses-helpers, stood up alongside Cruz, in effect holding up Cruz's hands.

While Vitter helped Cruz hang in there longer by providing a constant supply of fresh diapers.

Cruz had this to say about "principle" and "standing for integrity":

I will say standing here after 14 hours, standing on your feet, there's sometimes some pain, sometimes some fatigue that is involved, but you know what? There's far more pain involved in rolling over...

And yet Chester Cheetah clearly wants you to rollover, which is just like the way the snake tempted Eve in the Garden, proving just how biblical this whole thing is.

Moses' upheld arms assured that Joshua was able to overcome the Amalekite army. So, shod in black tennis shoes, Ted Cruz is a political Moses of sorts.

Political Moses supposes his toeses are roses, but Moses supposes erroneously, because it turns out it was just lividity.

Regardless of what the Washington DC establishment believes, in the hearts of millions, Cruz continues to articulate the fear and disgust a majority of Americans feel about being forced against their will into ObamaCare.

And if there's one thing I know about the American people, it's that there will always be a place in our hearts for fear and disgust.

Like a true leader and patriot, despite the pain of standing for hours -- and standing alone -- Cruz has reminded pusillanimous politicians that "There's far more pain... in not standing for principle, not standing for the good, not standing for integrity."

Although even a pusillanimous politician can find relief with Dr. Scholls for Her® Hidden Arch Supports ("Made with unique FabuSTEP® gel"), although in keeping with our theme, I suppose it should be Dr. Scholls for Hur®.

Senator Cruz is certainly not done standing; he will continue to stand, even though he is no longer speaking on the floor of the Senate.

If he spends more than 20 minutes sitting on the toilet, for instance, his thighs go to sleep.

For the rest of us who stand with him on the side of freedom, let's join together and continue to hold up Cruz's arms and extend to him the heartfelt appreciation of a grateful nation.

And at night, when we're tired of holding up his arms and want to go to bed, we can put some suction cups on his hands and leave him stuck to the window like a Garfield doll.

[Annoying Note: We're having a Beg-A-Thon this week (click here for the woeful details). If you can throw a few bucks our way, it would be enormously helpful. Please click on the button at the top left, or just use our PP account name: scott.clevenger- at - gmail.com. If you're not Pals with Pay, email me and I'll send you our snail mail info. And many thanks to the very kind folks who have already given.)]

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Why is it that whenever I see the name Larry Klayman I always hear it pronounced in the voice of Jerry Lewis ("Laaaady, there's a Klaaaaaaaaayman on the stairs in the house with the thing...")? Is it just me? It's probably just me. Anyway, I hope so, otherwise there's going to be a lot of barely suppressed snickering during the revolution, because Larry has sent out birther announcements for our date with destiny! The Day of Rage, the Day of Blood, the Day of the Klaaayman is nigh:

Last Wednesday, the great usurper, Barack Hussein Obama, after having been indicted by an Ocala, Florida citizens' grand jury, was convicted by a people's court of defrauding the American people and Floridians by proffering them with a fake birth certificate.

Well, with everything from the military to prisons being turned into for-profit enterprises, I guess it was only a matter of time before the court system was privatized as well. Thus, even though the corrupt government-run courts have thrown out all of Klaaayman's lawsuits, Obama stands convicted by the people's court, and his only hope now is to throw himself upon the mercy of Judge Wapner.

If you do choose to click on that link, you might want to turn down your speakers first, because you'll be greeted with a lengthy blast of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" from Les Miserables. I wonder if Larry licensed the use of the song, or if perhaps we should convene a citizens' grand jury in the comment section and convict him of copyright infringement.

As readers of this column and www.wnd.com know too well, Obama is not a natural born citizen eligible to be president of the United States, as he was not born in this country to two American citizen parents.

Of course, Obama was born in this country, and his mother was a native of Kansas -- while John McCain was born in Panama, and Mitt Romney was produced in the same Tijuana maquiladora which also manufactured Hymie from Get Smart, and nobody seemed to care -- and six previous presidents had at least one foreign-born parent, so that's obviously not a disqualification. But while Obama was born in Hawaii, Klaaayman has discovered that it wasn't our Hawaii (you know, the one we stole for Dole), but the Hawaii of the 8th Dimension, which means that Barack (whose real first name is John) is actually a Black Lectroid from Planet 10!

However, to justify his fraud and his elections to the highest office in the land, and after years of inquiry, in 2011 the Obama White House posted on its website a birth certificate purporting to show him having been born in Hawaii. The problem is however, according to forensic experts, the birth certificate is altered and forged.

I can see altering a real birth certificate to insert false information, or forging one completely, but if you alter a forgery, don't you just make it real again?

The day of reckoning has come.

Already? Crap! Why do I always wait until the last minute to do my Day of Reckoning shopping? And why do store clerks continue to insult birthers' deeply held values by saying "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Day of the Rope"?

Obama, having failed to plead in response to the indictment that was served upon him, waived his right to a jury trial.

And just how did you serve your subpoena on the President of the United States, Larry? Lob it over the White House fence with a tennis racket? What's to stop the President's counsel was filing a motion to declare the subpoena invalid because your process server committed a foot fault?

Thumbing his nose at We the People, as the citizens' prosecutor, I appeared before a citizens' court judge and presented evidence from Cold Case Posse investigator Michael Zullo showing that Obama tricked voters into electing him in 2008 and 2012.

Thanks to a faint watermark on each ballot that vaguely resembled Ed McMahon, Obama fooled voters into thinking they were actually entering the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.

As a result, the citizens' judge found him guilty on two counts of falsifying information to federal and state election officials.

They also found the Cold Case Posse guilty of one count of Unintentionally Hilarious Tough Guy Name.

He was thus sentenced to the maximum prison term for these offenses of 10 years, and ordered to immediately surrender himself into the custody of the citizens of the United States and Florida.

So acting as prosecutor, Klaaayman won his case, then turned around and -- acting as judge -- threw the book at the defendant. I suspect the things Larry sees when he's awake are the same things Hamilton Burger imagined when he was dreaming.

Of course, Obama will not willingly obey the law of the people. He will attempt to hide behind the iron fences of the White House, perhaps cowering under his desk for fear that the people will rise up and demand his ouster.

We'll know he's succumbed to his fear of the people if we hear a faint voice cry out from the Oval Office, "Hey, look at all the gum!"

On November 19, 2013, a day that will hopefully live on in the history of our once great republic, I call upon millions of Americans who have been appalled and disgusted by Obama's criminality – his Muslim, socialist, anti-Semitic, anti-Christian, anti-white, pro-illegal immigrant, pro-radical gay and lesbian agenda – among other outrages, to descend on Washington, D.C., en masse, and demand that he leave town and resign from office if he does not want to face prison time.

Larry, I don't know how many RSVPs you've gotten for the coup yet, but I'm going to suggest you err on the side of caution and not book the big table at Olive Garden.

The millions who are being summoned to our nation's capital...

Larry, seriously, just reserve a booth. If it turns out your message does resonate with more people then expected, we can always ask the hostess to bring over some extra chairs.

I propose bringing the victims of his reign of terror to a podium across from the White House in Lafayette Park to give their testimony on how he has singularly severely harmed and in some instances even killed their loved ones through his actions.

Frankly, it doesn't sound like a great night out, but it's gotta be funnier than the Blue Collar Comedy Tour.

The nation under Obama and even his inert and castrated political opponents, the Republican Party, have driven our country into the bowels of impending doom. The moral and ethical fabric, our economic underpinnings, and our national confidence and prestige are in the tank.

Well, I gotta admit, with our castrati in our bowels and our underpinnings in the septic tank, things are looking pretty shitty. And I'm no Martha Stewart, but shouldn't the ethical fabric be in the linen closet?

Now, 237 years after they signed the Declaration of Independence in my native city of Philadelphia, the nation has come full circle to the tyranny that has been imposed by a new despot, one far more evil than King George III. King George III may have been a greedy "control freak," but at least he was a Christian.

Even better, he was insane, which makes him an American-style Christian.

Benjamin Franklin walked the walk along with the likes of George Washington, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. Let us now walk in their footsteps and march into to Washington, D.C., this November 19th, and rid the nation of the criminal who lurks in our White House.

I'm blocking my tricorn hat as we speak. Just one question -- who's bringing the slaves to the after party? Franklin, Washington, and Jefferson didn't roll without their bondage bitches, and we want to keep our insurrection real.

Just a reminder: We're having a fundraiser this week, to pay off Mary's current medical bills (and the few bills lingering from the last time she was sick), as well as get Riley to the vet and hopefully discover the cause of her sudden weight loss and other maladies. We realize (oh do we realize) that things are tough, so if you're in no position to help, please don't worry about it. But if do have a little cash you could throw our way, it would be deeply appreciated. You can click on the button on the top left (or just use our our PP i.d. (scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com). Or if you are not Pals with Pay, drop me an email and I'll send you our snail mail address. Thanks.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

We're having a hair-raising fundraiser this week, in an effort to cover a rash of human and feline medical expenses and keep the lights on (or at least the Internet connected -- sordid explanation in the post below) and I was feeling pretty bad about it, until my friend Marc posted this on Facebook:

Glancing at the Atlas Shrugged Kickstarter website, the message here seems to be, "Hi! We're super-productive job creators who are making a trilogy of films from a classic novel about self-made tycoons whose genius built the foundations of modern civilization, and how they finally decided to withhold their productive energies from a society infested with loafers and parasite. Unfortunately, it seems those same parasites make up the bulk of the moviegoing audience, and they were too busy loafing to go see our last two films, so please give us money so we can make a third movie nobody will go see. If you don't, then we'll just take our indispensable skills and move to Galt's Gulch and live the sweet life with our static electricity-powered robot servants that somebody really needs to invent in a hurry. I think we've got a Kickstarter going for that project, too.

The producers entice potential investors with their breathtaking concept art!

A commenter to the post remarked, "Let them eat cake," but if we really want to honor the spirit of Ayn Rand, I think we should let them choke on cake. Then everyone else in the room should refuse to give them the Heimlich Maneuver, because why should productive members of society who respirate perfectly well on their own give away free healthcare to moochers who can't be bothered to keep their own windpipes free of bolus?

Ayn Rand is widely considered one of the most influential and controversial authors of the 20th Century. Rand’s magnum opus, Atlas Shrugged, was published in 1957. Thirty-five years later, a Library of Congress survey reported that Atlas Shrugged was the second most influential novel ever written - second only to the Bible.

The Bible also featured miracles, although nothing quite so goofy as perpetual motion machines powered by rubbing your socks on the carpet, or impenetrable force fields that can cover an entire town, an idea which Under The Dome has already proved is kind of a crappy plot device.

Kickstarter gives us a great opportunity to reach out to a whole new audience as well as affording fans of the book a chance to participate and join us in being part of the celebration of Ayn Rand’s ideas.

And what better way to honor Rand's cardinal virtue of rugged individualism than with an orgy of collectivism?

Atlas Shrugged was written over 50 years ago as a warning to future generations. This movie is being produced to alert those same generations.

Although some of those same generations are in assisted living now, so when alerting them you might want to speak up, and it's probably a good idea to wait until after dinner, because sometimes they fail to recognize a clarion call to defend the principals of Objectivist philosophy, and think you're just trying to steal their fruit cup.

Risks and challenges
As with any movie production, there are various risks and challenges...One of our biggest challenges is scheduling a Fall 2013 shoot. Already being September, we are looking to begin shooting before the end of the year.

So really, our biggest challenge is making Fall last until the middle of Winter. Fortunately, thanks to greenhouse gas-producing industries, we're well on our way to meeting this goal!

Important Information About Rewards

• For those of you visiting our set, we anticipate shooting as early as October in Pennsylvania or Georgia. However, there is a good chance this may change.

We may wind up shooting in Manhattan (Kansas), Narnia, or possibly Knott's Berry Farm, like that one guy who secretly shot that horror movie at Disneyland, because they've already got a railroad.

The Future Rides on Rearden Metal!

• For those having your names carved into Galt's house, all names subject to approval.

The usual practical jokers aside, we've already received several generous donations at the Galt's House Level, from such distinguished benefactors as Dr. Mike Hunt Ph.D, Lieutenant General Heywood Jablome, Professor Hugh Jass, Sir Eaton Beaver, and and former Representative Dick Armey.

Speaking of donations...if you do have a few dollars you could spare, we (meaning Mary, Moondoggie and I -- Riley, if history is any guide, will be express nothing but disgruntlement with her trip to the vet) would greatly appreciate the help. You can click on the button at the top left of the blog or, if you're not on Pal terms with Mr. Pay, drop me a note at scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com, and I'll email you our non-email address.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Warning! Or Aviso! as we say in Los Angeles (okay, to be honest I never took Spanish in school since I couldn't roll my "R"s, and assumed, from Charo's many appearances on the Merv Griffin Show, that such lingual dexterity was a prerequisite. But thanks to those little yellow plastic sandwich boards they put in the lobbies of office buildings, I know enough to stay off the piso when it's mojado). Anyway, parental discretion is advised...

This isn't a funny post, nor is it even my usual attempt to be funny. It's a plea, and there will be no hard feelings if you'd prefer to skip it and come back tomorrow. For you hardy souls who've elected to tough out the next paragraph of whining and importuning, I'll be as succinct as possible by letting Thomas Mitchell's "Uncle Billy" sum up the situation: "This is a pickle, George. This is a pickle!"

As you know, we've had some serious health problems around here. Mary suffers from chronic TMJ, which comes and goes, and has unfortunately come, in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove. It causes her jaw to lock up periodically and makes it excruciatingly painful to speak (obviously a problem, since she's a teacher); and often lately it makes it impossible for her to eat (what she calls "the TMJ Diet"), which may be why she was so run down that last month she developed an infection which required a trip to Urgent Care and a course of Cipro (anthrax victims ask for it by name!).

Nevertheless, she was soldiering through the pain, until her principal ordered her to the District doctor, who refused to allow her back to work until she'd gone off and completed some quest to find a cure. So for the past two weeks, Mary has been leaping through hoops, seeing our doctor (who was great, and leapt through hoops herself like it was the damn Cirque du Soleil), and a dental surgeon in an effort to get a medical clearance to return to work. In the meantime, she burned up all her sick leave (against her will) and lost at least a week's pay. That's on top of all the out of pocket expenses for drugs, copays, and a trip to the ER. The result is that our immature cucumber has been thoroughly soaked in brine and vinegar. We're tapped out, to the point where -- absent a payment Time-Warner is rather impatient to receive -- our internet connection will be going bye-bye next Monday, and Wo'C will either be going on "hiatus" or "going to live on a farm upstate, where it'll have lots of room to run around," not quite sure which.

It's only been slightly over a year since our last fundraiser, and I was really hoping we wouldn't have to appeal for help again, at least not so soon, but events have conspired otherwise (granted, it's not the kind of conspiracy that stiffens Darrell Issa's nipples, but they can't all be sexy). So we're forced to come hat in hand, tongue in groove, and puss in boots. And that's the other thing...

Over the past few months, Riley has lost a startling amount of weight (as well as most of her hearing), and now, in the last couple weeks or so, she's beginning to lose her balance. We want to take her to the vet and see if there's anything that can be done -- Mary wonders if it might be a thyroid problem -- but the cost of an examination, let alone tests, is way beyond our reach at the moment.

If you're not in any position to help, please don't worry about it, we certainly understand. But if you can spare a little something, and figure this place doesn't completely suck, we'd be extremely grateful for any help you can provide. Please click on the button at the top left, or if that doesn't work, our PP payee address is scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com. However, if pay is not your pal -- email me (same address), and I'll send you our snail mail information.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

I'm sticking with the Pastor Swank repeats until somebody tells me to stop. And even then, they'll have to make a good, logical case, couched in the Pastor's own unique patois.

Originally published September 9, 2005

Thank Heaven For Wingnuts

I spent the morning gathering toys, blankets, and canned goods to send to the Katrina victims (a local couple are hoping to fill a semi-truck with supplies that they can transport to the affected area). Then I made about a ton of applesauce (my apple trees finally started producing, and I can't bear to waste food, and applesauce is all I could think to do with them). And I'm beat. So, it's a day for low-hanging fruit (so to speak).

Let's check in with Pastor Swank, since he always has about 12 new columns out every day.

There are 582 females now running for office in the September 18 elections. That’s awesome beyond imagination. Yet it is fact.

Yes, these women are running for the parliamentary seats set aside for women, and they are brave to do so, since some are facing violence, death threats, and other forms of intimidation. However, the democracy planting is going a little less than awesomely. Here's part of an interesting Australian piece, Abused and accused, Afghan women make a stand:

The fear is that women MPs will be marginalised or manipulated. One prominent male fundamentalist candidate said that the women would be ignored in parliament and several supposedly reformed male Taliban candidates have condemned what they call the imposition of Western freedoms on Afghan women.

There is speculation the male establishment is marshalling women candidates because seats reserved for women can be won more easily than in the chaotic contest among male candidates.

[...]

The head of the Afghanistan Independent Human Rights Commission, Dr Sima Samar, said: "Sadly some of our women are getting the support of jihadis and they act for them - not for women's interests or groups."

But back to Pastor Swank:

While American liberals breathe in fresh liberty air every dawn, they set landmines for every Republican working night and day to assist those in other countries with the freedom spread.

It’s interesting the contrast, isn’t it?

Say, America, when you get up tomorrow and breakfast on wholesome, high-fibre Grassroots Toast topped with delicious Freedom Spread, don't settle regular, old air. No, try new Liberty Air! Now with a touch of mint for extra freshness!

Oh, and exactly which Republicans are working day and night to assist with the freedom spread? The Halliburton board of execs, perhaps?

So is this a hoax or for real? Believe me, time will tell. And actions speak louder than words.

But don't count your chickens before they hatch, because a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. As my mother used to say, "Good lookin' guys are a dime a dozen, you gotta find the one who's goin' give you true lovin.""

Um, what were we talking about? ... Oh, right, the Pastor hasn't told us yet, but we suspect from the title that it has to do with Muslims.

However, at this juncture both are absolutely necessary — coming from Muslims living especially in the United States. Suspicions against Muslims are at an all time high in this country for very good reason.

Because they worship the devil, as the Pastor has informed us previously.

So informed American citizens are very wary of a newly formed group that espouses peace. Another fix? Another lie? Another trump card? Another biding time in order to take us over, kill us off, make Islam the planet’s only fanatic power hold?

Yes, it's another trump card so they can once again kill us all off. Nice job seeing through their trickery, Pastor!

According to the AP, US President George W. Bush has put Karen Hughes in charge.

Well, he needs to exercise, and Dick Cheney is dead or something, so SOMEBODY has to be in charge.

Well, she’s going to need every trick of the trade to deal honestly, shrewdly and diplomatically with these Muslims newly organized. God help her. She’s going to need all the assistance her discerning senses can muster.

She met with the Islamic Society of North America recently. She was to deliver her hopes for camaraderie. I am sure she had her antennae spreading high and wide all the while she was dialoguing with a people who are known for their double tongues and sabers behind their backs.

Karen spreads her antennae high and wise so as to better muster her discerning senses. But are her super insect powers a match for the double-toungued Muslims? Time will tell, because actions speak louder than words, and a fool and his money are soon parted.

Saturday, September 21, 2013

RILEY: Your inevitable, and -- if all goes according to plan -- gruesome destruction.

MOONDOGGIE: I was just thinking how that moisture stain on the ceiling looks kind of like a unicorn with a cat on it's back, and how they're probably best friends, and go on adventures, and maybe get a TV show where they fight monsters -- but not scary monsters, like, Scooby-Doo monsters -- and the monsters always lose, but they learn an important lesson and say they're sorry, and then they share their snacks with the cat and the unicorn, and then everybody goes home, and gets to sleep on the bed alllll night.

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Not, alas, a cooter, which I understand is Southern slang for a turtle, or a vagina, or perhaps, if you're really in a mood to party, both, but a wizened old codger who may be familiar to readers of Wo'C and/or our local fishwrap.

M., as I'm sure you know, is a longtime member of the Crapper Community, a trenchant and witty commenter, and the proprietor of one of our favorite destinations on the interweb, Just Another Blog From L.A. (also one of our favorite blog titles).

The coot in question, Burt Prelutsky, is known (vaguely) to Angelenos of a certain age, since he used to be the "humor columnist" for the LA Times, before they hired Jonah Goldberg for that position and didn't tell him.

As Doghouse Riley reminded me when I first wrote about today's subject, back on the old Wo'C site, Burt cut his teeth as a script writer for Dragnet 1967, penning such classic and well remembered episodes as Burglary: Mister, Juvenile: DR-35, and Frauds: DR-28. He had a fairly respectable career in TV, with credits that include one episode of The Rockford Files, nine episodes of M*A*S*H, and one episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, culminating in six episodes of Diagnosis: Murder. Then he got the gig at the Times, which I recall him being fairly terrible at, and when that petered out he puttered around in his bathrobe, wandered out into the street, and was finally discovered asleep on the sofa at WorldNetDaily, where he now produces a column called "The Squeaky Wheel," because "The Squeaky Fromme" was already taken.

Before we get into this, I should mention that Burt has been recycling the same column for the past five years -- a version of his Amish-like shunning by Hollywood liberals -- so while he's a grumpy old bigot, at least he's trying to save the planet.

There are people who will find excuses for pedophiles and for women who feel themselves entitled to having abortions five minutes before the baby is ready to pop, but will call for a lynch rope if anyone dares to pronounce the word that the N-word refers to.

I think there are a couple inherent problems with announcing two new classes of hominids, especially when your paper hasn't yet been peer reviewed. For the latter group, I imagine the scientific community would demand fairly substantive proof that there are women who will go eight months, thirty days, twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes into a pregnancy before abruptly changing their mind, and that they attract an entire, previously unknown species of cheerleading excuse mongers. As regards the former claim, I admit that Burt is on firmer ground so far as evidence is concerned, but suspect, as a result, that he's on pretty thin ice with the Catholic church.

We have been told time and again that the world will stop spinning if white people utter the word that’s tossed around like a Frisbee in the black community.

I didn't realize the N-word has such aerodynamic properties. I wonder if Black people ever take their saucer-shaped racial epithet and some empty cardboard boxes down to the park to play N-Word Golf.

Blacks never explain why the word that’s supposed to be the worst obscenity imaginable has such wide currency within their own ranks.

What could be more damning than the failure of young Negroes to justify their culture to an elderly crank who writes for a conspiracy-mongering right wing website? It's almost like they neither care what he thinks, nor respect the sovereignty of his lawn!

Black stand-up comedian Chris Rock made his name doing a bit in which he compared blacks, whom he claimed to love, to niggers, whom he despised and ridiculed. It resonated with middle-class black audiences because it summed up their own attitudes. So why is it that whites aren’t allowed to make the same obvious distinctions without resorting to the babyish N-word?

Yeah, they can trust us with it! It's not like we've ever misused that word in the past.

Why are we not supposed to be able to recognize the difference between men who go to school, hold down jobs, refrain from drug use, get married and help raise their children, from the bums who do none of those things?

And why doesn't using the B-word instead of the N-word give you the same tingle in your Depends?

In addition, how does calling a friend or neighbor a nigger work as a bonding agent?

I dunno, Burt. I usually just grab the Krazy Glue...

I’m 73 years old and I’ve never heard one Jew call another Jew a kike, a Hebe or a sheeny.

Really? Apparently you've never seen Gentleman's Agreement either. I'd maybe hasten on over to Netflix, Burt. You're not getting any younger.

One of the anomalies of modern life is provided by Hollywood. Only in the town I call home would you find thousands of the very people dedicated to the eradication of the Second Amendment devoting most of their working hours to making movies and producing TV shows that glorify men protecting their families, city, nation and planet with guns.

Hm, I think I maybe see why the work dried up for Burt -- it really helps the whole assembly line process of Hollywood film production if the writer realizes this stuff is supposed to be fiction. I'm pretty sure, despite their making seven films on the subject, that Universal Studios wasn't actually trying to inspire the scientific community to drop that polio vaccine research and genetically engineer a species of talking mule.

And not just those regular guns they don’t want the rest of us to have, but humongous weapons with huge – even limitless – magazines.

On the other hand, I suspect those Hollywood liberals would be fine if Aaron Alexis, like Bruce Willis, had been armed with blanks.

Speaking of life in my town, a while ago I was invited to attend a luncheon with other former L.A. Times employees. These get-togethers are a monthly affair, but I had never attended one before.

Which probably accounts for your continuing to receive invitations.

But having nothing else to do one Friday, I decided to show up at the restaurant in Pasadena.

But even before the shunning, it all started to go to hell when Burt realized this restaurant didn't have an Early Bird Special, and wouldn't honor his coffee coupon.

As it turned out, I only knew one person, a now retired assistant editor, but everyone was pretty friendly. That is they were until we reached the point when, after the meal...I mentioned some of the scripts I had written for TV and then named a few of my books: “Conservatives Are from Mars, Liberals Are from San Francisco,” “Liberals: America’s Termites,” “Barack Obama, You’re Fired!” and “67 Conservatives You Should Meet Before You Die.”

I can't believe liberals are so touchy about being compared to home-wrecking insects. Burt probably should have opened with the N-word as an icebreaker.

The booing was so loud and raucous, you might have thought I had claimed authorship of “Mein Kampf” and “The Protocols of Zion.”